Dear Girl in the Cactus

by: Molly Beckwith

Your parents meant to take a photograph. You stoleyour brother’s light and so he shoved you, shoulder-first.

Girl in the cactus, pain will taste like the whiskeyyou’ll shoot one summer in a stretch of empty field.You are stronger than its burnor the cigarette smoke clung to your collar. For now,

the green suits you, little dragon spinestangling in your blood as you perch on the tub.When you pull them, the cactus claws,from your thigh, lay them on the counterin order of size, and then trash them. Laterwish you hadn’t. Tisk your tongueagainst your teeth as air fills in your holes.

In your mother’s circle you are the onewith bad breath, dirty fingernails, red stripes on your shouldersfrom climbing too many trees. Keep digging your lair,little Komodo, and find what it is you’ve been missing.Eat flowers and peppers until you turn lovely, hot.Know your parents never took the picture.Dear fire-eater, beat your arms until they grow heavy,and do not stop. Dear little dragon, swallow light so it shines